I found my history in the tiny
bones of a hummingbird, its beating heart
that could fill a thimble with all its blood
in seconds, its frantic wings,
its soft beak and subtle feet.
I found the tongue,
its lathed shape, its tucked flesh,
and rubbed it between my fingers
until it settled like clay,
never again to fly sideways
or beat its wings faster
than a prayer can leave lips.
 
And for that, I offer a prayer:
hummingbird, fly into my mouth and lay
your eggshell head under my tongue.
Let me turn you over—brain case,
eye socket—the needle of bone 
and death against my teeth.
I will hold your skull still in my mouth
to weigh it, to weigh myself,
and remember why you taste like sugar.